


Un Millar de Pequeñas Muertes

by Reavv



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Conspiracy, Jealousy, M/M, Sexual Tension, Threesome - M/M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:12:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7991470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reavv/pseuds/Reavv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he sees McCree, and thinks: cast-off loyalty, scented cigars, blood stained grin. He thinks of the feeling of slim muscle under his hands as he corrected a stance, the hollows of too little food and too much activity, that first mission where he brushed bits of bone out of auburn hair. </p><p>He thinks: I wanted this man at some point. I wanted him. </p><p>The anger that courses through him has the agents stepping back and him stepping into the light, murder in his bones. </p><p>Wanting isn’t something he’s allowed anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Stares at the camera in exhaustion

He’s fought him before, along dust ridden roads of Dorado and the cliffs of Ilios. They’ve bloodied each other with bullets and fists and bitter words. Lifeblood has stained grains of sand and concrete and leather. 

He’s honestly not thought much about the ingrate, besides as an aside to Jack. He'd certainly set his eyes on supping on his soul, should the opportunity arise, and has a well of bitterness at the sight of the cowboy hat and steady hands. Muttered curses and taunts maybe a tad more than he would otherwise. But he's not his main meal, tonight. 

The Talon agents sent with him on this job shift nervously in the shadows of the building they’re hiding in. He swallows his irritation at the noise and clenches his guns in hand.

Perhaps that is why he hesitates when he sees the target at last: the annoyance at Talon and their grunts, the faint nostalgia hunting at the corners of his mind at the sight of red fabric and spurs. 

It's not an unfamiliar sight, even an expected one. 

But there's a newness in the lines of McCree that has him pausing, gun aimed for the heart and finger on the trigger. A certain knowledge in the light of day that has him tilting his head in thought.

These days, he and Talon are on shaky ground. A few too many posturing lieutenants and a few too many holes in intelligence reports. He accepts the jobs when it's convenient, when he knows Overwatch will be there, but he doesn't subscribe to their bullshit plans. More often than not lately he’s been forced back and had to watch in anger as the new Overwatch retreated with their objective to even think that there's anything resembling cleverness in their plots. 

Their incompetence is only balanced out by their pet sniper, who he can grudgingly admit to having a good eye for detail and headshots. 

Despite all that, Talon has reach. A long arm in every pocket. They’ve promised for a long while to facilitate his revenge, sharing guns and tech and info. Yet he’s no closer to uncovering the depth of his betrayers than he was those years ago. 

He’s starting to think he knows why. 

So he sees McCree, and thinks: cast-off loyalty, scented cigars, blood stained grin. He thinks of the feeling of slim muscle under his hands as he corrected a stance, the hollows of too little food and too much activity, that first mission where he brushed bits of bone out of auburn hair. 

He thinks: I wanted this man at some point. I wanted him. 

The anger that courses through him has the agents stepping back and him stepping into the light, murder in his bones. 

Wanting isn’t something he’s allowed anymore. 

—

Once, he pulled a skinny sharpshooter out of the blood of his brothers and told him that he could either hang in prison or live to see himself on the other side. Squeezed a wrist that twitched to knife him and smiled at the bullets lodged in his armour. Told the kid he need a better gun, better aim. Told him he was better than the gutter trash he’d been steeping in. 

Dragged him back to base, watched with sharp eyes over the hunger-laden bites of food, at a flinch from a passing arm, at wary eyes watching him back. 

Even then the kid had the ability to bluff like a pro, all bluster and machismo as he huddled in his dirty cowboy getup and shivered in fear. Gabe (he’d been Gabe then, sure and strong and pain-free) had watched the ways his fingers had twitched, the way his eyes were blurry and unfocused. Had skipped the regulations for a few hours to get some food into him, a shower, new clothes. Had bandaged his wounds himself, talking as he did. 

“You belong to me now, kid. To Overwatch, yeah, but remember who pulled you out of that shithole. You make trouble, you’ll be facing me. You get into trouble, and you come to me. You’re Blackwatch now, despite what this shiny badge says.” 

He’d knocked the Overwatch logo on the kid’s new uniform and then pushed him into Angela’s tender care. He’d known even then that the kid would be trouble. The way he’d leaned into his hands, the way his eyes had been suspicious and wary and just a little hopeful. 

The way he’d stuck around, after unit placement and shift changes and training. The way he didn’t, years later when Gabe was drowning under the accusations and lies. 

He’s not a kid anymore, wasn’t even when he’d been running with his old gang. He’d been a kid though, in Gabe’s eyes, with the way he’d dress like some sort of circus act, the way he’d do anything for praise, the way his skin had clung to his bones like it was trying to squeeze the life out of him. He’d been a kid, until he hadn't. 

—

The mission fails, as it usually does these days. He’d feel frustrated but he knows even the little spider has been having trouble with the regrouping heros. Together they can usually triumph, but with only disposable grunts as backup he might as well just throw his guns in the river. The heroes never go anywhere in less than six. 

But he can sometimes catch one or two of them on their own, unaware. Can slip through the shadows and press cold metal against their spines. Can hear the hitch in their breath, smell the fear in the air. He’s like a children’s tale now, a warning for all the bad little girls and boys of Overwatch to watch the shadows. To stay in the daylight. 

Evidently McCree doesn’t feel the same sort of tension, loping gracefully down the darkened alleys of Kings Row like he belongs there. Reaper times his steps with his, finger tapping a silent beat against one shotgun. He’s broader than Reaper’s vague memories, muscular arms where he was thin but corded. There’s a stockiness in him that was only just beginning to show. His beard is complete too, instead of the patchwork mess he’d been trying to cultivate for years. 

More importantly, Reaper notes with something that feels like bitter pride, he’s grown into his talents. His relaxed stance belays the attention he pays to his surroundings, the way his hand is near his gun at all times. The way, with one move, he could be behind cover and with a smoking gun. 

He’s taught him well. 

He ghosts on closer, some strange and incomprehensible pain in his gut pulling him forward. In the distance he can hear a clock tower. It rings to the rhythm in his blood. 

“I know y’er here, Reaper,” McCree says, slowing at the mouth of the alley. His hand is on his gun, fingers stroking the barrel like it’s not a glorified pea shooter. Reaper feels his lips curl. 

“You know nothing, ingrate,” he whispers behind him, black smoke rising in the air. The whirling body and the shots into the centre of his mass does nothing to him, he simply continues on until he’s visible in the light from the dim street lamps, able now to pressure the man back into the shadows of the alley. 

“I know damn well enough, Reyes.”

Reaper chuckles, the sound grating to even his own ears. The thundering of his blood and hunger are drowned for once by the amused rage that sweeps past. 

“Ah, did dear ol’ Jack finally fess up? And here I thought we would be speaking in riddles and metaphor for a time yet,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “but he’s wrong again. Reyes is dead.” 

Dead, dying, decaying. Burnt skin and broken bones and the agony of feeling his eyes peel away from his face. The smell as he disappeared that first time, collapsing in a cloud of black dust. 

“Looking mighty alive where I’m standing.” The sound of reloading, steps backing up even now, keeping out of range of the meat-shot gun wounds he’d receive otherwise. Eyes roaming, looking for high ground, an exit. Looking for his shot. 

No doubt if Reaper lets him he’ll try his flashbang. If he’s really unlucky, the Deadeye. 

The metal of his lost hand gleams wetly. Reaper remembers the tourniquet, the cries of pain. The way their temporary base had smelled of blood and infection for days. Remembers the way a hunched back had begged him, desperate as fever set in. For mercy, or for Mercy. 

In the end he’d dragged the man back not in a bodybag but in the back of a Thunderbird. Backup had arrived only just in time, and he imagines wouldn’t have arrived at all if the higher-ups had anything to say about it. The pilot had not been the most rule-abiding in order to save them. 

But they’d live, and he doesn’t regret it even in the face of horrified tears at a missing arm. Of relearning how to shoot. To fight. Gabe had wanted to live, had wanted his men to live.

Reaper only knows death, now. 

“What are you doing here, McCree? All alone while your team is ambushed by Talon? Thought I taught you better than that.” 

A snarl, another shot that goes blazing through black smoke. McCree can’t afford that many more; they’re shuffling deeper into the alley and every shot is liable to end up ricocheting off the walls and heading back straight towards him. 

Narrowed eyes his way, a flush across tanned skin. McCree isn’t as unconcerned as he looks. 

“Talon can try, but they won’t succeed.” 

Reaper smiles. 

“We’ll see about that.”

—

Gunfire and smoke and the smell of blood. As familiar as the sound of his heat wracked lungs. Curses and sudden silences, and through the tiny comm he mostly forgets in his ear he hears screams and explosions. He can almost make out the crackle of the Australian maniac from far away. 

There’s a crack in his mask, where it caught a bullet in the beak. Another buried in his thigh. A bruise on his neck where it caught a pistol whip. McCree fares worse; the scatter-burns of a shotgun up close but just missed, a split lip from getting punched into the wall, metal arm limp and barely responsive from the lead shot stuck in delicate joints. His eyes are blazing despite the way his breath hitches. The way his blood drips. 

Reapers feels the ache in his guts bloom. There’s a superimposed image over the battlefield of past fights, past missions. Against each other, or together. As Blackwatch, or as Overwatch versus Talon. There’s the smell of horrible re-hydrated coffee, the sounds of drunk laughter, silent crying. Phantom pains, mostly. 

“Retreat!” Comes the command through his com, the sounds of fighting silencing for a second as it does. Reaper doesn’t answer. He doesn’t take commands. Doesn’t give them either, having giving that up when he died. 

He’s not beholden to Talon, anyways. 

“Poor little bird,” he crows instead, advancing once again on the other man. The mission doesn’t matter anymore, was already a sidenote hours ago, but here with the smell of blood filtering through his broken mask he feels frenzied, hungry. 

“You’re one to talk about birds, Reaper. Ain’t you taking the theme a little far?” McCree’s voice lisps just a little, lists like his whole left side, weighed down by the broken prosthetic. 

Reaper bares bloodied teeth and doesn’t answer. The man doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to clothing anyhow, reverting back to bad habits now that he doesn’t have a Commander that will ream him if he shows up to a mission briefing in chaps. 

He stops a few feet from the trembling figure, guns lowered at the pathetic sight. McCree’s gotten better, but Reaper did teach him all he knew. Killing him is almost distasteful, when thought like that. Three years is obviously not enough for the man to bloom into something more, even if he has improved. 

The dissolution of Overwatch probably didn’t helped. He’s skinnier than he should be, Reaper notes with a frown. Much bulkier than in his youth, yes, but all of it is exhausted muscle and thin skin. 

“You still keep your side open,” he says instead, voice flat. There’s a part of him that wants to make it a taunt, maybe blast a few more shells into said side. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” McCree sneers, a little bemused. He’s hitching himself back, hands numb on the gun but steady. He’ll shoot, Reaper knows. 

It would be a waste, he decides. A waste of what, he doesn’t know. He turns into smoke without another word, letting the wind drift him away. He suddenly doesn’t want to see McCree’s bloody face, doesn’t want to feel the tug in his gut pulling him closer. Doesn’t want to think about the things that died with him. 

Doesn’t want to examine the thought that drifts into his head at the sight of those defiant eyes, bright and gleaming. The seemingly innocuous idea that roots its way into his brain. He licks scarred lips and retreats back to the extraction point. 

McCree looked good, he muses as he settles back into skin and pain and decay. 

—

He limps back to his team short of breath, what feels like cracked ribs rubbing against his lungs. There’s a migraine blossoming behind his eyelids, and he really just wants to sleep for fourteen hours and down a whole pot of Gibraltar coffee. 

Instead, he rounds the bend that he knows will take him back to where the payload is getting loaded onto the plane, and runs straight into Mercy. He grimaces as soon as he sees her expression.

A few of the others cry out a little when they see him, something between worry and elation, and he tries not to let the guilt get to him. He’d had his reasons for splitting. 

“I will not even ask what you got into this time, McCree,” Angela tsks, grabbing his uninjured arm and steering him towards the shuttle. Her eyes are warm and filled only with concern though, so he doesn’t worry too much. One delicate hand unclasps his body armour, Caduceus staff already lit with power. He feels the cool touch of her healing and lets himself slump a little more down in his seat.

“Bruised ribs, shotgun burns, a broken nose. Some slight muscle tears. I suppose it is not as bad as it could be, considering,” she mutters as she works, pulling his shirt up to look at the bruising. He shoves his sudden urge to cover his chest as far down as it will go. 

“The main issue is the arm,” he agrees instead, “it’s stopping me from shooting properly.” 

Mercy runs a critical eye along said arm, before shrugging. He knows already he’ll need to go to Torbjörn for a fix, something he’s dreading even more than Angela’s unavoidable fussing. He’ll be out of the field for at least a month. 

“I hope you at least got the answers you were looking for.” 

McCree risks a glance at the woman’s eyes, steely and suddenly cool in the night air. He swallows down the platitudes he instinctively reaches for. This isn’t the time for southern charm. 

“Of course, Ma’am. He fights the same, as you’ve noticed. Talks similar like too, even if he didn’t quite used to be so—so” he trails off. So angry, he wants to say. So insane, though he’s not sure that’s quite true. 

Mercy nods. 

“I was sure—I did the autopsy myself. But, I suppose if anyone were able to do it…” 

He perks up a little, grabbing onto her hand with sudden urgency. He’d tried to push it to the back of his head as he’d fought, already filled with enough distractions. But this is something she’ll need to know. 

“He said something, when I said his name. That Jack must have fessed up— you don’t think?”

She purses her lips, something in her expression pinched more than the subject deserves. She opens her mouth a few times to answer, seems to think better of it, and continues fixing him up. 

“The things they did in the Soldier Enhancement program are classified. Most of the candidates died, from treatment or soon after. No one's been able to accurately document the extent of their abilities, not even Overwatch when we had two of them,” she says slowly, after a few minutes of silence. Her jaw works as if she is chewing on a particularly difficult problem. 

There’s a clatter from the back of the plane as the rest of the team troop in. He catches Angela’s eye and nods his head, content for now to drop the subject and resume later. Hopefully when he’s not sporting a bum arm and bruised ribs. 

They all strap in for takeoff, Mercy helping him maneuver all the gear around his injuries, and he lets his shoulders relax into the seat. On his other side Soldier: 76 is methodically checking his gun, and across from him D.Va out of suit is making concerned faces at him. Tracer is in the pilot seat, and Junkrat is haphazardly sitting beside D.Va, so that's all of them. It feels weird, after years of working alone, to work in a team again. 

There’s a bit of nostalgia in it too, echoes of both his time in the old Overwatch and Blackwatch. He thunks his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. Gabriel, if it even was him behind the mask, had drudged up memories he’d locked away for some time. Stakeouts and running down streets in black leather, smoking out the window of his commander’s office, a hand on his shoulder. 

A voice in his ear telling him to stop keeping his side open. 

There’s anger waiting just under the surface of his thoughts, at the coup and the lies and now, at the fact that a man he used to idolise is running around trying to kill everyone he loves. But over all that, he’s just tired. Tired of thinking that Reaper’s out there, still angry at the world and fighting it. 

Gabe was always real good at getting under his skin. 

—

They get back to base, somewhat worse for wear but victorious. Mercy shuttles him to the infirmary, and the rest get shooed out to debrief. McCree watches the shuffling of feet and quiet chatter and lets it wash over him as the doctor puts away her gear. 

Out of the field, the Caduceus staff is locked away, unused. Treatment comes in the form of less-refined nanotech, good old bandages and burn cream. He’ll heal fast, just not as fast as the staff would have him. 

“That’s about as much as I can do for you, I have some antibiotics and painkillers for the next weeks, but you shouldn’t require any more treatments.” She purses her lips a little. “Although I would keep an eye on the ribs, and stay away from training for a while.”

McCree tries to smile disarmingly, and mostly succeeds. 

“Not gonna be able to anyways, with an arm like this.” 

Mercy nods, and then turns back to her equipement. McCree takes the time to button back up his shirt, not bothering with tugging on the protective black under-armour. Trying to lift his arms that high would be too much of a pain with his chest mottled in bruises. 

“I will take another look at the autopsy reports, but I remember what I wrote. There was no doubt at the time that the bodies were Jack and Gabriel’s. Visual confirmation was impossible, considering the amount of damage, but DNA doesn’t lie,” she says, still turned away from him.

McCree hums in thought.

“DNA is easy to get though, done that a few times myself for Blackwatch ops. And there was enough bodies at the time that someone could have just swapped the results.”

“Swapped the results as they happened? I made sure, Jesse. I checked everything, did the analysis myself. Unless someone was able to modify the tests as I was doing them—”

“—Which we’ve seen with the recent hacking attacks. Data stolen, swapped, changed. The sudden rise of Sombra protocols aren’t that uncommon. Heck, there were rumours in Blackwatch even years ago.”

There’s silence for a few more minutes. McCree can feel his eyes droop, and Mercy can obviously see it, because she dismisses him from the infirmary to get some sleep.

He’s exhausted, muscles trembling and eyes dry. The sort of tired that demands dealing with, that blankets everything else so that the only thing you can think of is sleep. He falls into his bed and blinks up at the ceiling blearily. It’s dark, and reasonably quiet considering who his neighbours are. More than likely everyone else is in the kitchen, getting supper. 

He closes his eyes and slows his breathing. 

When sleep comes, it’s with dreams of shadow men and black smoke choking him. It’s with fire and blood and the silence after the storm. It’s with the smell of burnt coffee and gunpowder and sweat. It’s with nightmares that are more memory than dream. 

—

Breakfast the next day is quiet, since he wakes up earlier than normal and the only ones at the table are Genji and Hanzo. It looks like he’s interrupted something, and he very carefully ignores the tension between the two men. The last thing he wants is dragons in his oatmeal. 

“Good morning, McCree,” Genji says, hands resting on his drawn up knees. 

“ ‘Morning,” he grunts, “no Zen today?” 

“He’s assisting Winston on a project this morning.” Genji shrugs as if to say that the whims of his mentor are impossible to discern. Hanzo, on the other side of the table, frowns.

McCree tucks his useless arm into his loosened collar and grabs a bowl down from the cupboards. There’s the sound of metal feet hitting shins, and a muffled curse. He ignores this with longstanding practice. 

“You will break something if you insist on doing it one handed,” Hanzo says, having gotten up, and snatches the bowl from his hands. McCree stamps down on the impulse to mention that he’s had practice one handed—had to get good, those months before a prosthetic could be made. 

“Appreciate it,” he says instead, watching the way the man prepares his breakfast for him. It’s not something he would have made himself, but he’s never been led wrong by either Shimada brother yet. 

Hanzo pours what smells like a pungent soup from a pot already on the stove into the bowl and sprinkles in something black and grated that’s sitting beside it. 

“You make all that?” McCree asks, leaning against the counter. There’s a tension in Hanzo that’s visible even under the full-sleeve robe he’s wearing, and it only gets worse at his words. He feels regret for a second, because without it he thinks Hanzo would look almost comfortable. His hair is down and he’s out of armour, something McCree rarely gets to see.

“He’s been up since four making it,” Genji pipes up from the table. 

“It would not be right, otherwise,” Hanzo replies, something defensive in his tone. McCree digs a spoon out of the drawers and nudges Hanzo back into the eating area. He gets a glare for his efforts. 

“Looks mighty fine to me,” he quips, as he accepts the bowl after sitting. The heat from the soup feels good on his one hand, and he curls the fingers around the ceramic for a few seconds luxuriating in it. Two pairs of eyes watch him as he dips the first spoonful in. 

It’s good, as he expects it to be. 

“Man, I wish I could have some,” Genji whines from his left, stretching metal arms on the table and pillowing his head on them. If Hanzo gets wound any tighter he’ll probably shatter into really pretty pottery shards, McCree can’t help think, flicking his eyes up. 

Some strange urge has him picking at the scab. He’s not sure if it’s a sudden concern for Genji, or anger still flickering under his skin.

“Can’t you?” Genji does still have some stomach left, and if what he’s overheard in the medical wing is true, functioning taste buds too. He’s never see the cyborg eat, but he would think it possible. 

“It requires more effort than it’s worth, really. I could, but it would mean the cleaning and replacement of several vital components, and well...Master Zenyatta has forbidden that I attempt anymore experiments in that department until they get the smell out of my quarters.” 

The clatter of Hanzo pushing off his chair and out the room is loud, but McCree keeps his head tilted towards his soup. He looks up when the man starts walking out the door. 

“Hey, thanks for the food, partner.” 

Hanzo dips his head in a jerky nod and continues down the hallway. 

“Man,” Genji sighs, tucking one hand under his chin, “brother really needs to get laid.” 

McCree chokes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some poorly translated Spanish in this, that I tried my best with but know is not 100%. If you're a native speaker and have corrections pls leave them at my door, and if anyone wants to help me with future chapters it would be appreciated.
> 
> You can view the translations by hovering over the text

Reaper doesn’t live in the Talon base, or any of their miscellaneous safe houses. He has a decoy apartment in Switzerland, because he can appreciate the irony, but he mostly goes to ground in any one of the abandoned Blackwatch boltholes only he knows about now. There’s no one alive that remembers them, he’s made sure of that. The security’s good enough that he can pretend to sleep a few hours as his flesh knits back together.

The nanites that make up his body self-repair at a speed that even Angela would shake her head at, bolstered by the leftover runoff from the super soldier programming, but even they are not fast enough for instantaneous healing. And it only works if he has enough genetic material to power them, something he’s lacking quite a bit of nowadays. 

He shudders violently as his body expels a metal disk about the size of his smallest claw: a control receiver. He spits out black mucus and rubs his scarred mouth against the already reeking leather of his glove. The metal is covered with a film of dying nanites, faintly smoking, and he thinks if he had the strength they might have been able to dissolve it completely. That might have been the point, however, and he would not be surprised if the receiver was actually just a container for malicious code meant to target the nanites themselves and not Reaper as a whole. 

Talon is getting desperate if they’ve resorted to trying to re-program him. Amelie might have been a success, as much as her indifferent loyalty can be called successful, but he’s never been afraid to be clear on where he stands. And it certainly isn’t with a puppet master behind him. 

“Tch, fools,” he mutters into the dirt, resting a feverish forehead against the relative coolness for a second as he lets his body twitch from mist to solid again. Finally he lifts his head and crushes the metal disk in one clawed hand. 

Talon’s frustration has been rising as more and more failed missions pile up, and he knows this latest attempt is only the first in a long line of more to come. 

He is, he can almost convince himself, immune to the idea that this is just another betrayal. He had no illusions going into freelancing with Talon that they would have his interests in mind, and he is too cynical to think there’s anything like honour among thieves. 

But he thought them smarter than this, considering their past successes. 

His lips twist in derision. 

He pushes himself upright and replaces his mask, breathing out into the filtration system until he can hear the hiss of its mechanics. Oxygen still hurts. The mask also has the benefit of getting rid of the black smoke that escapes his lips at every exhale now. 

Talon’s money is good, but he’s not so hard up anymore that he has to take scraps from vultures who can’t even keep loyal assets in check. Even the Spider is getting restless, and she doesn’t have the ability to doubt her masters. 

His fingers twitch, guns emerging without any real thought. Maybe it’s time he looked a little deeper into Talon’s aims; he’s not feeling as indifferent now that they’ve shown their hands a little too much. 

He’s always been a proponent of the idea that misbehaving puppies should be punished. 

—

Besides training and eating, the individual Overwatch members only really interact if there’s an issue on base or the younger ones want some bonding time. It’s not so much that anyone dislikes hanging out, but considering how large most everyone’s personality is, and how half the team tends towards snide anti-omnic remarks and the other half, is, well, omnic or omnic sympathetic, it can get awkward. 

There’s social groups, mostly old-members and new-member clumping up in various interests/hobby groups, but although McCree loves his old team to death he doesn’t necessarily want to be around them all the time either. There’s too many painful memories. 

Which means, when he isn’t being towed into the practice range by D.Va or shoved into headphones by Lúcio he ends up awkwardly shuffling after Genji and his brother, happy for once to play second fiddle to someone else’s drama. And Zenyatta isn’t bad company either, so when the cyborg ditches his brother for his mentor McCree still has someone to fill up the space while he oils his guns, or rolls his cigarros. 

Sometimes, if it’s late in the evening and the brothers are busy, or the monk is meditating, McCree will prop his feet up on a stool and watch some of the scientist work in one of the shared labs. Most of them tolerate it, as long as he doesn’t smoke, but Mei will go as far as to try to explain her experiments and data when she sees him in the corner. 

He never finished school, so it all goes over his head, but the bustle and noise is relaxing, and sometimes he can catch a few winks of sleep. 

It’s got a rhythm to it, the Overwatch base. Halfway between group home and mission control, with a constant revolving door of members off on missions or medical leave, but it still has time to feel quiet. Lonely. Too many ghosts in too many pasts. Scars that don’t ever seem to heal. 

He’s eyes track Genji and Hanzo, arguing in soft Japanese again at the dinner table, and wonders how you go forward when you’ve already hurt someone that much. What do you say to your murderer? To family forsaken and broken? 

He thinks, for a second, of his own abandoned family. The dead one, the one with a loving abuela and a quiet sister. The other dead one, the one with a dozen bloodied brothers and uncles, all half-ready to kill the other. And the one he had a hand in killing himself, Blackwatch and its lies and its shadows and its fierce self-loyalty. 

Then he shelves that thought in with the rest; old weary worries of past dead. Gabriel Reyes might be alive, somehow, and might have hinted that Jack is too, but whoever they are now, they aren’t who they were. 

He’s got no time to be wallowing in the past. 

“If you would just stop walking into shots you could dodge, this wouldn’t even be an issue,” Genji hisses, still in Japanese, and McCree very carefully averts his eyes the other way. His understanding of the language isn’t a secret, although he doesn’t advertise it either, but even he knows the difference between overhearing something mission related and what’s sounding like it’s going to edge into family drama. 

Hanzo, stiffly holding the arm that did, indeed recently get shot, scowls. 

“You would not have deflected it in time, and with your systems—” 

A high pitch mechanical hiss, that McCree realises is Genji’s version of a choked groan, has him looking up again. 

“Just because Angela threatened you with dismemberment if she had to piece me back together again does not mean I am—delicate or something. My body is actually more sturdy than yours, brother.” Another groan, paired with the sort of forehead rub that really should have been useless on Genji’s metal armour. 

“...it was not worth the risk,” Hanzo finally mutters into the silence, prim and poised and so tense in the shoulders McCree is almost afraid he’s going to snap like one of his bowstrings. 

“Well boys,” McCree says cheerfully when it looks neither brother is going to do much more than glare at each other, “this has been mighty entertaining, but, uh, I’m pretty sure I gotta go…check on my new arm. G’bye.”

He gets a frown from Hanzo and a lackluster wave from Genji. In any situation he would try and cheer the cyborg up, more than willing to be a sounding board if it’ll distract both of them. But he’s never sure how to deal with the whole ‘brother killing’ issue, and more than once he’s stuck a foot in trying to tease out the particulars. 

So he catches one more look at the brothers and slinks out of the room, promising to get one of those small keychain toys Genji likes later. 

—

The problem, McCree admits, is that Hanzo Shimada is very...attractive. A little uptight sure, but that has it’s own appeal. And he seems completely ignorant to the looks he attracts from teammates and civilians alike. He’s more than competent, able to shoot down enemies with the sort of precision that makes Jesse’s mouth dry. 

He’s not McCree’s usual type in men, but he’s something, alright. 

He also killed his brother, someone Jesse considers a friend, and seems reluctant to repent for it outside of whatever honour code he keeps quoting. Honour in death, and all that rot. He’s a little prissy, antisocial or just socially awkward, and painfully blind to any sort of flirting. 

So McCree doesn’t let the attraction go anywhere, not trying to fool himself into anything. He maybe pays a little more attention than necessary to the man, but he honestly doesn’t think anyone can fault him for it. 

Amongst all of that there’s also the fact that McCree hasn’t been with anyone past dark alleys and bad one night stands in ages, hasn’t had to deal with expressing an interest for more than a quickie for longer. He’s...not actually sure if he’s ever had a date that wasn’t some cover for a Blackwatch op, or innocent puppy dog love over juice boxes and cheese strings. 

He’s in his thirties, and he’s got no clue what to do with romance. He thumbs the bridge of his nose and sighs, leaning back into the sagging couch of the rec room. The kids—that is, Lúcio, Hana and Lena—are roughhousing on the ground after a dispute over the legality of modded controllers in casual gaming tournaments. 

He chews on his unlit cigar and feels old, watching them. Hana was complaining at breakfast that now she doesn’t have the Korean government breathing down her neck, she thought she would be able to stop dating in secret, but the public is even more interested in her now that she’s a part of Overwatch than when she was a celebrity.

Lúcio supposedly had a steady girlfriend before his latest tour, and they broke it off mostly amiably.

Even Junkrat, supposedly the third youngest, will ramble on and on about some ‘smoking sheila’ he’d met in Sydney a couple months back. Of course, knowing Junkrat, he could have also been talking about a new bomb. McCree isn’t even sure if the Australian knows what a sex drive is. 

And here McCree sits, pining for a man who spends most of his time insulting his clothing choices. Gabriel used to do that too.  
“Ugh,” he mutters, knuckling at his eyes. 

“What’s up, cowboy?” Lena chirps, untangling herself from the groaning forms of their teammates. The glow in her chest pulses cheerfully. 

“Just some bad thoughts, nothing to worry your head about, darlin’,” he murmurs in answer, going back to chewing on his cigar. He gets a snort in answer. 

“Aww, is Oppa feeling saaaaad,” Hana crows, sitting up off the floor. At her side Lúcio groans and rolls over, prosthetic limbs catching on the couch legs before he jerks them to the side. 

McCree feels the irrational urge to join him, feeling somewhat pinned down by Hana’s manic expression. 

“Ah, it’s nothin’,” he mutters, reflexively. There’s a thump from behind him and a shudder runs through the group, hands going for non-existing weapons. McCree just stops himself from drawing his non-regulation pistol, hidden under his serape. He recognises the sound. 

“Apologies,” Genji says as he pads across the room, “but dinner is ready and I have been told it’s even palatable.” 

The sound of three black holes set on consuming all the food in sight racing out of the room gives McCree a few seconds of respite from Genji’s piercing look. The mask is surprisingly expressive. It’s something he’s noticed with Zenyatta as well; something both of them have had to get good at in order to play nice with the poor humans who can’t read robotic emotional cues.

“So—” Genji starts slyly, inching around the couch so he’s blocking the view of the door. McCree sighs, leaning farther back into the scuffed leather. He’s learned by now that this new Genji—more at ease, less bitter, part philosophy apprentice and part bratty prankster—is a lot more likely to stick his nose into the other’s affairs than he ever would have those few months after Angela saved him. 

“I’ve noticed you’ve been taking a lot of missions with brother, lately.” 

McCree deftly rolls up and over the back of the couch and out the side door, the one that will make him have to take a good fifteen-minute detour to get back to the kitchens. 

“Nope. Not talkin’ about it,” he calls as he saunters away, knowing as he does that if Genji really wants to he could dash in front and keep him in the room. The cyborg gives him the out though, and only laughs at him a little. True friendship. 

—

Talon isn’t quite stupid enough to keep mission reports on past ops, or even something as small as the mission briefing in the first place. The higher ups like to hoard their information just for themselves, proprietary about even the smallest details as if someone’s going to connect the dots to a larger picture by reading requisition forms. 

They aren’t too far from the truth either, Reaper muses as he ghost out of another empty server room, kicking an unconscious guard in the temple when he starts moaning. It explains some of the issues he’s noticed before in how the organisation runs, too little inter-department communication and constant mix-ups in files and requests and orders. 

The servers are wiped every three days and the paper burned every fifth. Trying to find something as old as three years ago is basically impossible. 

Or it would be, if he didn’t know a little inside information. 

He pauses in the hallway and presses a hand to the cool steel wall. No doubt a team is already en route to this small, cramped base stocked only with subpar guards and underpaid technicians. If Talon figures out he did it, they won’t really care. He’s known for his aggression and independence, and he’s already made the effort to plant the seeds of a rumour about a grudge against some of these agents. Something petty and easily overlooked. It will be seen as him acting out against the mind washing attempts and not as a larger investigation. 

He exits the drab building and pushes through the thick vegetation surrounding it. He’s somewhere in Thailand, humid after the rains and roads washed away with gravel and dirt. The plants look half-waterlogged and happy about it, green and lush and poisonous. 

There’s a commandeered jet a few yards from the base’s own landing pad that he struggles towards, sweating under the black leather that he doesn’t ever take off now. There’s a half-grumbled thought niggling in the back of his mind that says he shouldn’t have to sweat now, since all his other bodily needs are stunted or non-existent. But his body has always loved to kick him when he’s down, so it’s no surprise that he’s left with wet pooling down his back despite the fact that his body rarely changes temperature. 

As he starts up the plane, going over the flight path in his head as he does, he taps on the side of his com and mumbles a phrase into his mask.

“¡Q'bole! ¿Servicio de entrega de Sombra cómo puedo ayudarle?” the voice in his ear drawls out, and he can feel his lips twitch minutely. 

“Hola," he mutters back, making sure to keep the amusement out of his voice. There’s few times he lets himself be amused nowadays, but he has even less of a desire to showcase it. It doesn’t last, anyway. 

“Necesito acceso a los servidores.” He starts the engines and finishes the last of his pre-flight checks, the sweat on his back slowly cooling unpleasantly against his skin. At least the jet has air conditioning. 

“¡Travieso!” the voice croons, a mechanical giggle following. Reaper represses a frown. The jet lifts off and he sits back, letting the autopilot take over. 

“Cállate. Sé que tienes tus pequeños espías en Talon, y me debes para Angola,” he tries to keep his voice even, knowing that the hacker is more than willing to hang up and destroy the covert connection. Out of all his contacts in this post-Blackwatch world of his, Sombra is the only one he wouldn’t burn in a heartbeat, mostly because by now she knows too much and has too many defences to try. And times like these it’s useful to have someone with her sort of information skills. 

“Aww gatito, le sabes que lo haré tratar a su derecha. Dame un punto de caída y le voy configurar le de hasta.”

He doesn’t bother answering, turning off the com and sending the coordinates manually instead. Now that he’s gotten confirmation he doesn’t feel like suffering through the rest of her irreverence. 

The flight is going to take nine hours, even with the augmented engines Talon enjoys so much, so he leans back and lets his body relax as much as it can. When he gets back to his current bolt hole he’ll try and suffer through a shower, irritated more at the feeling of his still-damp skin than any real need for it. He doesn’t have a smell anymore, nothing above the vaguely burnt smell of nanites and repurposed flesh. 

Maybe he’ll deign to go on a mission, to keep his supervisors ignorant to his actions and to look in on his old comrades. Maybe shoot up an ingrate again. Scuff up his hat and dirty his serape. 

Bloody his face so that he doesn’t have to look at his eyes, wounded and angry and underneath still looking for a sign. As if Reaper will take of his mask and press his scarred lips to messy hair, say “you did good kid”. 

He licks said lips and closes his eyes. 

Underneath him land makes way for cool blue ocean, his jet a mere speck in the reflection of serene looking waters. The screens in front of him are lit up with graphs and flight paths and incoming messages from nearby towers or planes. The Talon cloaking device is humming somewhere in the metal of the surrounding machines, and a deeper hum can be felt from the engines. 

His claws tap against the console and he shifts his weight in response to the sound. There’s a vague unease in his gut he can’t quite identify. His mind keeps conjuring up images of things he thought he buried long ago, a bitter nostalgia that he can feel rip something inside of him.  
He doesn’t sleep, but it almost feels like dreaming. 

—

McCree is twenty and tanned, skinny under his bluster and a little desperate still, despite it being almost a year since joining Blackwatch. He’s good at getting along with the other agents, but he’s good at getting under their skin too. He’s had his fair share of cuts and bruises and bloody noses. 

Jack thinks he’ll grow out of it, settle in his skin and be a little less eager to push his boundaries. 

Gabriel’s not so sure. He’s seen the need in the kid and it’s not something easily sated, not something time and the pitiful amount of recognition Blackwatch agents get will fix. He’s had to deal with agents like that before, too little past supervision and not enough respect, struggling under a system they don’t know. He tries to step into the roles they need, whether it’s strict task master or benevolent superior. Give them the direction they need. 

It doesn’t always work, and he’s not too sure it will here either. McCree doesn’t seem to be looking for an authority figure when he fidgets in front of Gabriel’s desk. He acts the part, hopeful and a little attention seeking, staring somewhere between expectantly and challengingly. But he’s not quite there. 

Gabriel’s had agents with crushes before, misguided puppy love and admiration, those that feel his hands on their shoulders and wish a deeper connection. (He ignores the part of him that remembers Jack’s voice in his ear, his warm skin, the way he begged.)

He’s had agents with father issues who want his undivided attention, agents who think they can get handsy with him because of his accent. Agents who couldn’t speak after he’s reamed them out because their mouth was dry and their pulse loud and fast. 

But he’s never had an agent like McCree, who stumbles into doors when he walks in on Gabriel in the training rooms, who flirts in one breath and then stutters out an apology in the other. Who does his job and then fucks something up, breathless in Gabe’s office at the end of the night. Who seems perpetually oblivious to his own attraction. 

He’s a kid, Gabriel can’t help think, watching him do laps. There’s a gracefulness to his loping that’s just coming in, limbs finally done growing and muscles slowly learning the right way to work. There’s advantages to getting them young, he admits, but it’s frustrating having to adjust all his training techniques to the growing of potential and not for building on pre-existing foundations. 

More than that it’s frustrating and makes him feel a little nauseous, the idea that this kid wants something he doesn’t understand. That Gabriel is fifteen years older, and he still entertains the thought late at night, sick to the stomach but unable to stop. 

“Enough,” he barks, watching the kid drop to the floor, exhaustion in every line of his body. 

“Geeze, boss, you’d almost think you had something out for me, or something.” McCree can’t quite keep his voice even, panting softly into his arm. His eyes are squinted with effort and he’s not even looking Gabriel’s way. 

“Or something,” he mocks, and throws him a towel, “get your ass up and into the shower. We’re rolling out at 1200 hours.” 

He doesn’t comment on the way McCree clutches the off-white fabric as if surprised. It’s been months and the kid still treats every kindness like something foreign. It makes Gabriel feel protective, in the worst way possible. 

—

It’s been five years and McCree has settled, a little, into Blackwatch and the missions. He’s been breaking accuracy records in the range, and mostly behaving on ops. 

He’s still tanned, although it’s more of a natural tone then the sunburnt mess he was before, a side effect of having a roof on his head always available and missions in the north. He’s not as skinny, thank god. Gabe’s not sure what he would do if he had to still push food into the stubborn man, Angela’s detailed nutritional plan taped on the kitchen wall. 

He’s grown. 

Gabriel clicks the back of his teeth and leans back a little more behind his desk. The rest of the strike team that just got back from a clusterfuck of a mission in Cambodia is laying in various levels of intoxication on the beat up leather couches. 

McCree has a warm bottle of beer in one hand, the other fiddling with a cigarro, lifting it to his mouth and taking it away again, as if the motion will sooth the nicotine craving. His hands are large, strangely elegant for a man who looks and acts as rough as he does. 

Gabriel might be a bit more drunk than he normally would allow himself, sick of the war and the red tape and the fucked up intel that always leaves him with condolence letters to write. Sometimes he wants to punch Jack’s stupid face in and yell about all the ways he’s failing. 

Sometimes he wants to dip his hands into thick curls and tug, feel something that isn’t death and killing for a night or two. 

He drags a bottle of tequila a little closer, leans farther back into his chair, legs spread and limbs somewhere between numb and waterlogged. 

The room is quiet, a hush on all of them that only has part to do with the exhaustion. There’s a game of cards happening in one corner of the room, but it’s sloppy, cheating blatantly visible and money only halfheartedly offered. He keeps an eye on it, experienced at this point in all the ways Blackwatch gambling tends to go wrong, but he doesn’t think he’ll get much trouble from this group right now. 

He’s not sure he would do anything, anyways, with the way the room is a little fuzzy and the way his eyes keep straying towards McCree.

His hat is on his knee, hair in disarray and falling into his eyes. The tactical vest has a burn mark right above the heart, and Gabriel’s attention keeps straying to it. 

“Hey boss,” McCree mutters, falling forward a little, the bottle of beer almost falling from slack fingers. 

“Hmm?” Jack is trying to message him, but he silences his com and takes another sip from the tequila instead. 

“I want a funeral, yeah? One with a crying eulogy and like, a field of roses.” McCree doesn’t lift his head, but Gabriel feels his mouth turn down anyways. 

“Blackwatch don’t do funerals,” he says slowly, slurring a little. There’s something bitter in his voice, something he normally wouldn’t let show. 

“Doesn’t have to be public, boss. Just us, yeah? Just Blackwatch. You gotta promise me there’s gonna be enough of me left to bury.” 

Gabriel stays silent for a second, something pounding behind his eyes. He listens to McCree’s uneven breathing and ignores the way he wipes at his eyes. The rest of the room is pretending to ignore them, eyes averted and faces turned away. 

“Yeah, I promise.”


End file.
